


Hyperventilation

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: Apocalyptica
Genre: Blood, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Licking, Lust, M/M, Marking, Minor Injuries, Music, Musical Instruments, Musicians, Performing Arts, Secret Relationship, Submission, Sweat, Teasing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-27
Updated: 2004-09-27
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3143459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perttu envied the cello, even though he knew Eicca would come to him and drive him out of his mind with the same razor precision as when he played.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hyperventilation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cohkka](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cohkka).



> Written for [](http://cohkka.livejournal.com/profile)[cohkka](http://cohkka.livejournal.com/), as part of the fic request meme. I've never written these people before, and I can only hope you won't find it too ghastly.

Perttu cut his fingers on the strings of his cello when he played, but he went on, ripping notes out of the instrument, spattering the dark wood with little flecks of red. He liked to think of it as feeding a vampire, a beast that drew its sustenance from him and from the energy he poured into his playing.

The cellos howled like harpies in the cavernous auditorium, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Eicca, twined around his instrument like a sylph in a deranged forest of strings and stock.

Eicca's head would snap up at the end of the piece, his damp hair clinging to the pale forehead, and yes, it was like sex to him, like lust -- not love. Perttu envied the cello, even though he knew Eicca would come to him and drive him out of his mind with the same razor precision as he when he played.

Eicca's hair got tangled in the strings occasionally, and of course he would rush to help, all for the temporary thrill of grasping handfuls of the thick linen-white hair. He could see the wide foolish grin between the skeins, and he answered the smile, automatically, and wedged his knee against the cello to stop himself from leaning in to kiss Eicca. Not then, not now, not in front of the others. Wait until dark, until alone, until forever. It seemed they did nothing but wait: wait for tour buses, for conductors, for roadies, for others. For release.

He was jealous of the cello. He could admit that. Predictable, foolish and childish, but true nonetheless. At times he idly wondered if Eicca felt the same way, if that was why he insisted on licking every last vestige of resin dust off Perttu's fingertips before even kissing him. Their little ritual, wasn't it?

At times, it seemed his life consisted of sex, cellos and endless travel. Sex at its best was like playing the cello, slow strokes and fast, coaxing something brittle and burning from what he held. Delirio. He could tease, let his fingers caress in a drawn-out arpeggio over Eicca's sides and chest.

Altra volta. Again and again and again, like repeating the same simple scale over and over. That was where the likeness ended, however, as every reaction from Eicca was different. No two gasps were the same, and the curses flowed in different patterns each time. Staccato, sharp and short, as they deliberately got lost in the backstage labyrinth; affettuoso, tender and soft, like the wicked little purr in Eicca's voice when he said Perttu's name; ralletando as they slumped back onto the tangled sheets of a wide hotel bed, both of them breathless and sweaty. He would lie back, listening to his heart slowing down to its normal rhythm, his left hand combing through Eicca's tangled hair. It was a transient joy, as he would have to creep back to his own room before morning if he wanted to get some sleep. Were he with Eicca, sleep would never be an option.

Without sleep, he lost his concentration, and during the tours his time was spent weighing choices, teetering agonizingly between carnal and musical performance.

On concert nights, the shouting from the audience was like the low roar of something primal, and it sang in his head until he thought his skull would crack open.

It was true, what they said, that music was like sex: just as brutal and intoxicating if you were willing to give in and throw yourself into the music. The sweat stung his eyes, but his blurred vision was no loss. He didn't need sheet music any more. He had played this piece so many times his very spine was the line for the notes to rest on. Glancing to the side, he caught Eicca's eye and answered the white-toothed grin without thinking. It seemed he never thought anything when he was around Eicca; that something as high-level as coherent brain processes were right out whenever they were in the same room together. On the same stage together.

He knew the smiles, the grins, the grimaces; knew what they promised. He supposed there was no art to it -- surely half the audience knew what they were thinking, and the vulnerability of the open flirt was what stoked the fire higher.

Oh, that night would be wicked, wouldn't it? Eicca would be strung out on adrenaline, limbs electrified with energy and lust, and Perttu could do nothing but give in. Lie back, splayed out on the clean white sheets of another opulent hotel bed, his mind reeling as Eicca displayed his uncanny ability to leave vivid marks where they would not be seen, only felt.

The night hours would be long and blissful, but the first one would, as always, be spent in manic rapture.


End file.
